Yes, you're reading this correctly - another chapter posted a mere week after the last! ;) I know I'm really sporadic with this fic, but I love writing it and I have no plans to stop - it just depends on when I have the time. Thanks for putting up with my unreliability. I can't thank you enough for your reviews of the last chapter. They really made me smile - thank you so much for putting the time in to write nice things about this story! It means the world. I tried to offer some insight in to Kate's feelings last time - though as I'm sure you've realised, I always find it a bit harder to read her than I do Jack. I spend a lot of time thinking about Jack's headspace after he got off the island, so this kind of encapsulates some of that. Hope you like it. X

Chapter 12

Jack's mind was going at a hundred miles an hour. He was driving in just about a straight line, probably slightly over the speed limit, his head fuzzy, as though a mist had descended and he couldn't quite think straight. He rapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared blankly at the car ahead of him, feeling the adrenaline pumping through him. What had just happened..? The break lights on the back of the car in front lit up, and a red hue illuminated his face and the inside of his vehicle. Automatically, he applied pressure to the breaks and slowed the car down. The slower speed and the bright light seemed to kick some clarity in to him, and he took a deep breath, winding down the window as the car ground to a halt before the traffic lights. He tried to process what had happened, wondering immediately if it was a mistake. He glanced out the open window. How had he just... kissed her... without thinking about it?

The streets around him were mostly deserted and dark, the occasional street lamp lighting up the empty pavements. After three or four minutes of just listening to the hum of the car engine, Jack reached a cluster of buildings with people spilling out and milling around. He drove past a couple of bars with music so loud it was rattling their windowpanes, and he clenched his jaw. The music had jarred him; he felt rattled - he felt nervous, and elated, and it had been a long time since he had felt like that.

Pulling in at the next free space on the pavement, Jack shut off the car engine and sat for a moment. He glanced over at the dive bars, watching as a young couple stumbled out, laughing in each other's' arms. The door swung shut behind them, and he caught a glimpse of a dingy bar full of young people clammering at a bartender. Rows of dusty spirits bottles sat on the shelf behind him.

For a moment, he was caught in two minds. He had his hand on the handle of the car door before he stopped himself. He shook his head, and before he could think about it, he restarted the engine and pulled out, continuing the journey home.

"I'll take, uh..." Jack's eyes scanned the spirits that were lined up along the bar. "I'll take a Scotch, whatever you recommend. Neat."

The barman nodded and set to it, clearly not about to recommend him anything good. Jack settled on to a stool at the bar, shrugging off his jacket and lying it on the chair next to him. He rolled up his sleeves and his exposed forearms rested on top of the shiny black stone bar surface.

He had avoided this place last night, because he knew he'd end up drinking himself in to oblivion, and he liked to think he had a bit of self-awareness about that kind of thing, after all the years he'd watched as his father's drinking got worse and worse. But all day, he'd had in his head the image of the cheap spirits on the shelves and the recollection of the music so loud it could block out his thoughts. So here he was, the next evening, no better off than the night before, in the place he'd tried to avoid. Ironically, the pounding music and the crowd of people only served to heighten his focus and leave him sitting in solitary, with only his thoughts and his scotch as company.

His day had been a long one. Naturally, he hadn't had much sleep, and his alarm clock woke him at 8.15 to remind him to get up and go to work. His first day back at work, in fact. He'd taken a quick shower, made coffee, and was out the door by 8.45. Meetings and reacquaintances had taken up the majority of his time, along with a brief but uncomfortable conversation about Christian, which nobody enjoyed and consisted of muttered confused condolences and a general avoidance of eye contact. After that, the focus was on the future and getting Jack back to work, and he knew damn well that was exactly what he needed. He'd much rather his thoughts be caught up in x-rays and surgeries than being swamped with the memory of those he'd left behind.

Now, sat at the bar, he was exhausted. He finished his scotch - which tasted as cheap as he had expected it to - in one gulp, savouring the burn as it coursed down his throat. "Can I get another one of these?" He called to the barman.

And now, finally, he let himself confront the thoughts that had been nagging at him all day. His mind had been replaying his encounter with Kate over and over again, but he'd refused to let himself think anything more about it. The barman presented him with his second drink. Jack took a sip, and placed it back on the bar, his hands wrapped around the glass, staring down in to the dark liquid. Had he made a mistake? Had he crossed a genuine boundary that there really was no going back from this time? In the past, they had been able to sweep it under the rug. It'd happened before, he knew that, but not like this. The first time, she had been upset, and he had been there for her, and later on, she had apologised for it. And they managed to not talk about it, not even once. Last time, he was the one who was upset - not to mention drunk. And it had been late, and he'd made his excuses, and she'd let it go. But this time, he had been stone cold sober, and it had been much less innocent, and he knew what would have happened if Aaron hadn't cried out. He didn't know if that would've been a good thing or not.

Jack had finished his second drink, and the barman had already placed another one down in front of him. "You wanna start a tab?"

"Sure." Jack avoided the barman's eye, and swirled the liquid round in the glass, before taking a small sip.

Maybe things would be different now. That was his biggest worry - maybe she wouldn't want to see him. He'd said he'd call her, but he hadn't. He hated himself for the fact that he'd created this situation; this feeling of uncertainty and intensity that bubbled up inside him; he was the one who had kissed her, and he was the one who had left, and he was the one who hadn't caller her. He took another drink.

Unbidden, the image of Sawyer on the chopper swam in to his mind. Sawyer, whispering something in her ear, and then kissing her, and then jumping. Being the hero, a small voice at the back of his head whispered, not for the first time. He frowned and took another drink of scotch. Then, almost automatically, another image forced its way in to his head - back on the island, when he'd sat down to have dinner with Juliet, having just ignored Kate's blatant flirting in their makeshift kitchen. He sat down to eat his food and he tried to ignore it, and he tried to not care, but he just couldn't help himself watch her out the corner of his eye as she marched over to Sawyer's tent, and he knew exactly what she was going there to do. It killed him, it really did - he could still recall the piercing feeling in his chest, the crippling disappointment - even though he knew, he knew he was sitting with Juliet to try and show Kate he didn't care. But he did - he'd always cared; from the moment he met her, all he had wanted was her.

And he started to feel the doubt seep in, as it always did when he considered the relationship between Kate and Sawyer, which he could never quite get his head around. But then he remembered last night; the feel of her hands, the way she had pulled him roughly closer to her, the way she had kissed him back with an almost aggressive passion, the way he had felt in that moment, like nothing else mattered and like he knew she felt exactly the same way - and he told himself that she hadn't rebuffed him, or rejected him, or just half-heartedly reciprocated. Maybe... he stopped the thought. Maybe nothing. Maybe doesn't matter.

He wanted to call her - he'd said that he would. He took out his phone. There was a message on the screen from a journalist; the third that day. He exited it, annoyed that somebody had found out his phone number, but he pushed that thought easily from his head. He found his contacts, scrolled down, and without thinking about it too much - Dutch courage probably playing a part - he clicked.

The phone rang four times before she answered. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's Jack."